You sit with me before my surgery
And stroke my hand, and softly lend support;
Awhile without a word, yet you report
A wealth of subtle sentiments to me.
The nurse pops in, and says that the I.V.
May pinch me; I don’t let my face contort,
Wanting to seem brave and polite. We court
The best blood pressure with infused tranquility.
It’s time to go. The doctor shakes your hand
As if we’re at a sports event. I say
“I love you,” as you do, with confidence.
They wheel me off. Though I wear no gold band,
I feel your presence near me when I fade.
I’ll wake wrapped in your silent eloquence.
(C) 2005 by Jack Veasey
This poem appeared previously in Wild Onions XIX.
All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any manner without the author's written permission.
Wild Onions, by the way, is the literary magazine of Hershey Medical Center -- where I underwent this surgery.